


Death Stone

by TheFlamingDragonfly



Category: Bonanza
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 20:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13372602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlamingDragonfly/pseuds/TheFlamingDragonfly
Summary: Written for a Halloween challenge on the Bonanza Boomers site a few years ago.





	Death Stone

Little Joe’s last two days started with his discovery of a freshly dug gravesite headed by a beautifully ornate tombstone bearing his full name and birthdate, and, to his dismay, a death date of July 9th of the current year, just two days away. For several minutes he merely stared, trying and failing to understand how and why he was seeing such a strange vision. The grave was shallow, not close to being deep enough for a coffin but certainly enough for a mere body wrapped in a shroud to be covered by a thick layer of dirt. The headstone was skillfully carved from a very fine slab of granite that was almost marble-like in its finish, while the lettering showed the precision of a master’s hand. Joe had to admit that the level of skill was likely beyond a joke, but clinging to the idea that someone was playing a prank on him allowed him a day of relative ease.

However, as the sun set on that first day, after his friends and brothers had all adamantly denied having any part of the tombstone’s wording, Joe found himself counting down the hours until the date matched that of his proposed death date. 

He lay in his bed early on the morning of July 9th, his heart thudding despite his attempts to stem the foreboding thoughts that had crept through his dreams and had eventually awakened him. He wiped his sweaty brow, rubbing his eyes and telling himself that no, he was not wiping tears but instead perspiration. No, he was not frightened of a silly practical joke perpetrated by an as yet unidentified friend (or enemy). Yes, he would spend this day as though it was just any normal day, as though there did not exist a fresh grave bordered by fluffy soil and headed by a two-foot high carved slice of granite. 

Sighing in frustration, Joe tossed the blanket covering him aside and climbed from his bed. Part of him desperately wanted to confide in someone, but he felt sure that his concerns would be dismissed as the overactive imagination of an eighteen-year old. 

“I’m not going to die today,” he whispered. “That tombstone doesn’t mean a thing.” 

He paced impatiently, stopping several times to peer out the window. The night was clear but very dark thanks to the thin crescent moon. Going out would be foolhardy. And what would he hope to accomplish? It was silly even considering riding out to the grave. It made no sense. But he could not stop himself from dressing.

The clock downstairs read just after three o’clock as Joe passed. Securing his hat and gunbelt, he silently slipped into the humid night. A few minutes later he was leading Cochise from his stall, saddling him, then riding from the yard, walking until far enough away so hoofbeats wouldn’t reach the ears of anyone in the house. 

Despite the dark he found the gravesite without much difficulty. The stars seemed unusually bright as he dismounted and secured the horse to a nearby tree. He hesitated, his hand on Cochise’s neck, unsure what he wanted to do. What he needed to do. 

He took one step, one tiny movement toward the grave, one thought closer to figuring out what he would do, when a sudden shriek sounded somewhere…behind…above? Cochise jumped, bumping sharply into Joe, causing the young man to stumble and cry out. He pressed back into the horse, wildly scanning the area, his eyes dilated as far as possible but seeing nothing that would explain the horrid scream that still seemed to echo around him. 

“What is it?” he whimpered breathlessly, terror threatening to completely overtake him. “I don’t see…” His voice trailed off into a sob. It could not be true. His eyes were tricking him, as were his ears. The gravesite was not gradually becoming enveloped in a misty glow. He did not hear a strange flapping sound, did not see something, some creature, some…

“It’s not true!” he cried, springing into action. Sprinting toward the grave, he tripped into the loose dirt and fell to his knees in the shallow hollow. One hand smacked into the stone, scraping across the death date, and as he felt the etching under his palm he heard a whisper very close to his ear. 

He gulped at the words, unable to speak, to scream, to escape. He felt a violent shudder below his legs, a quaking that grew stronger, ravaging the grave, causing him to collapse and throwing dirt onto his body. The headstone itself, the inert object with various lines and circles that conspired to terrorize one Joseph Francis Cartwright, seemed to sway and contort, while the glow shimmered, faded, and disappeared. Silence and darkness reigned once again, and a black and white horse snorted and waited for someone to come.


End file.
